Oneiromancer
by fjun
Summary: They want to take something from him. Just business they call it. But Shepard takes everything personal. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Mass Effect, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 3 and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware._

 _Author's note:_

 _Welcome to my new Mass Effect story: Oneiromancer. I'm aiming for shorter chapters, but more regular ones.  
_

 _Be warned this will be an AU, because it seems this is the only kind of story I'm able to have fun while writing. If you're averse to AUs, then I urge you to turn back now._

 _Also: this is not the same Shepard as in my other ME fanfictions. They all just share the same name, simply because I cannot settle on another one._

 _Enjoy!_

 **.**

 **.**

 **ONEIROMANCER**

 **Chapter I**

 **.**

 **.**

Johann hated this place.

Illyria, capital of the history-ridden colony of Elysium. Humanity's first colonial settlement in the Skyllian Verge after the First Contact War. Major hub of travel and commerce due to its strategic location at an intersection of several primary and secondary mass relays. A planet shared by mankind with half the population being alien, though unsurprisingly most of them were blue. But even with the extra security measures in place in order to take non-human scanning procedures into account, a clusterfuck like this managed not to be aborted in time.

Legs pumping beneath him, Shepard sprinted after the assassin. The mimetic polycarbon suit the man wore made him hard to track through the thick wash of rain pouring down in dense curtains. Shepard's neural implant locked onto his target and, interfacing with his ocular implants, highlighted him.

The assassin wheeled around a corner, onto a crowd-packed street, wet brick shimmering in bright neon light. Covered in scratch marks and rust, advertisement drones cast about, bawling about the newest gadgets and insurances available, and, of course, about the puppet parlours littering the run-down streets.

He _fucking_ hated this place.

Johann barged through the sea of people, focused on the shifting mimicry pattern of his target. Some people jumped out of the way, others yelped, fell down, cursing him and his existence. With all the colours and shapes around, the assassin's high-tech suit couldn't keep up, taking on an odd, flickering blend.

High whine of full-brake plasma engines above. The VTOL roared to a stop over the roofs, the Wedge company logo stamped on its armoured hull. The searchlight flared the street into sharp brightness. Now the pedestrians scattered, screaming in fear.

As the masses parted and reared from the searchlight, the assassin tried to slip among them. Realising the futility of his actions, he dashed aside, kicked open the steel door to a tenement building.

'Be advised: suspect is augmented,' said Shepard over the encrypted Wedge channel. The affirmation came, combat-calm, from Lieutenant Lenka Fedokura.

Ukrainian Lisunov Arms RK-5 Hammer pistol brandished, Johann moved towards the entrance. The caution he excised would slow him down, but was necessary in the end. No need to stumble head-first into a trap.

'Lost visual on target,' Shepard said.

'Thermal shows only tenants. No sign of any disturbance.'

 _Shit. Not mimetic, thermoptic camouflage._

Johann stepped up the stairwell, smart munitions pistol sweeping. He forewent caution with haste for a time. Stopped on the first floor, perched on his haunches.

Fedokura still talking over the intercom: 'Local police have been alerted. ETA two minutes. We'll proceed to cover possible exits.'

'Roger.'

With a mental command he activated the virtual overlay of his visor, checking for any clues as to where the assassin might've gone. Wet footprints, leading further up the stairwell. Johann started to move.

'Picked up target's trail. Leading up. In pursuit now.'

Arriving on the second floor, the trail continued to lead upstairs. Lights circled and high-pitched sirens grew louder outside the window, showering the inside in stuttering flashes of blue.

'Rapid response unit on the scene. Be advised: they're preparing to go in,' updated Fedokura.

The assassin's bootprints ended on the third floor, led to a decrepit hallway, which in turn led to the apartments. Lightbulbs flickered and hummed, whining about their constant usage. The doors were palm-print secured. Not that that would keep an augment from breaking in.

'Understood. Hold them off as long as you can.'

'Won't be long.'

'Just do what you fucking can, Fedokura,' said Shepard. Then switched the Wedge intercom off. Command had sold him this as a solo op, and here he was struggling with other Wedge personnel and the unusually excited local police force.

 **.**

 **.**

'That fucker shut off coms,' Lenka snapped.

Simon Sjöström, belted up under the opened hatch of the troop compartment of the military-grade VTOL, continued to scan the various roofs and balconies of the tenement building through the scope of his, onto the floor bolted, LR-TAKK anti-personnel sniper rifle.

From the sealed off pilot compartment, the only—oddly enough—lightly accented voice of David Innokentievich piped up over the intercom. 'Should I set us down on the roof, lieutenant?'

'Negative. Circle around. Sjös can take out the target if he tries to run.'

'Roger, ma'am. Circling around.' The VTOL adopted a light sideways tilt and accelerated.

Eyes still glued to the scope, Sjöström said, 'If I can spot him. Bastard doesn't show up on thermals, ma'am.'

Lenka nodded. 'You'll manage.'

Two rapid thumps in quick succession slapped into the calm. Accompanied by explosions of light and shattering glass. The beehive of local police began to seethe, now galvanised into immediate action.

'Shit.'

 **.**

 **.**

Talk about overkill.

His full-face helmet-rig's visor scurried to counter the effects of the two flashbang grenades. The disorientation it could do nothing about. Johann's perception of depth tilted. His head rang.

Like in a bad flick, the assassin jumped him from above, appearing out of a ventilation duct.

The augmented legs of the assassin packed the punch of a jackhammer. The kick in his chest threw Shepard back, his Hammer pistol clattering on the floor. The impact should've killed him on the spot. His spine would've broken and the shattering into bone fragments would've severed his nerves, hadn't his entire spine be radically reinforced to account for his own mechanical prosthetic limbs, that is. The surprise when he got up with no evident injury showed in the assassin's momentary hesitation. All Shepard needed.

He crossed the distance in the blink of an unaugmented eye, blocked an incoming kick with his own heel, jabbed at the larynx of the assassin, and hit it with a satisfying crunch. In his panic, the assassin's vertical slice with his monomolecular knife was sloppy. Johann stepped in close, blocked the swipe, turning the motion's energy into a swing with his armoured elbow. It cracked against the assassin's head. He crumpled as if his bones had turned to jelly, the fabric of his skin-tight polycarbon suit too thin to provide any real protection against physical trauma.

Shepard rolled up the headpiece of the unconscious assassin at the neck. Put a dermal patch onto his bruised throat that would keep him under. Proceeded to take off the suit's hood altogether. Strands of dark hair, covered in sweat came loose and splayed onto the ground. Turned out he was a she.

Johann shrugged, grabbed his weapon and secured it at the magnetic holster on the chest piece of his ballistic flex-armour.

Subtle explosions thudded downstairs, quick footsteps approaching his position.

Re-establishing communication, he spoke over his subdermal implant, 'Target secure. Tell them to back off.'

'Too late for that. Advancing on your position,' said Fedokura, annoyed tilt in her voice. Or maybe it was anger.

When the rapid response unit arrived on the third floor with a fanfare of flashbangs, Johann was ready. They pointed guns and shouted at him. Johann, shielding the crumpled assassin with his frame, pointed his Ukrainian pistol back, right at them and outshouted them _that under U.N. private military charter the prisoner was now under the authority of Wedge Security LLC._ and thus out of their _fucking_ reach.

They finally backed off when Fedokura and her squad arrived. The sight of three Wedge personnel, fully prepped for heavy combat quickly deterred any thoughts of violence.

'What took you so long?' said Shepard up at Fedokura, his smile hidden behind his faceplate.

'Fuck you.'

 **.**

 **.**


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Mass Effect, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 3 and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware._

 _Enjoy!_

 **.**

 **.**

 **ONEIROMANCER**

 **Chapter II**

 **.**

 **.**

The stars wheeled above, a glittering illusion of distance under the curtain of soon-to-be night. Two blue-tinted moons orbited the godforsaken planet, one a tiny blob in the distance. The third had been shattered thousands of years ago, apparently, and covered the sky in a band of reflected light, like a massive arch spanning the entire canopy.

Even in the middle of nowhere in human-controlled space, beauty of some measure could be evoked.

No trading route worth mentioning passed anywhere near the planet. Else, the only object of dubious note was an Australian state-owned backwater colony with mining rights for the vast depots of iridium it housed in caverns beneath the crust.

Practically no human soul visited this star system willingly. A few years back, even the miners were replaced by Hahne-Kedar-manufactured robots with literally no self-preservation and controlled by a distributed A.I. hivemind network. After the First Contact War, the Council had no choice but to tolerate the integral usage of A.I. constructs by mankind, otherwise their entire infrastructure would collapse. Though, they still don't tolerate the constructs in Council controlled space. Even so much as a suspicion and a shoot-to-kill order was issued.

The emergency transmission of an SA pioneer team's beacon had rubbed Shepard the wrong way from the get-go. He'd told the men under his command as much. Some shared his sentiment, mostly his comrades from the N program.

Atmore. Melling. Asch. Pinckney.

Others did not.

But even with all the caution his paranoid mind excised, in the end, it mattered not. The mission ended in a disaster that the SA would impose a news embargo on. The letter sent to his next of kin would state that it is _with deep regret we have to inform you_ of the death of your relative, Johann R. Shepard. Then the SA would spin the usual tale about a training exercise gone wrong or something of a similar level of bullshit.

Johann started to cough violently. Specks of blood mixed with spittle splashed on the chestpiece of his environmental hardsuit, his helmet cracked and lost somewhere. His only way of communicating with the Detroit destroyed.

'Fuck.'

The cackle of electrical fire buzzing in the distance stirred something in him. He tried to move, got a response of searing pain down his back for his efforts, a stab of molten iron to his cranium. Pillows of sand shifted underneath him. One of the colonial prefab units groaned and crumpled with a crash. Shepard barely managed to stare at it one-eyed, the other swollen shut. The entire encampment had been turned into a ruin of dissolved metal beams, reeking plastic refuse, and fire.

Energy sapped, Shepard let his head fall back onto the wind-eroded rock spanning the flat expanse in red tones, in stark contrast to the shoals and isles of blown-together forms of bright white sand.

The chewed-up and burned corpses of his fellow marines covered the alien ground around him like macabre imitations of a puppet show gone horribly wrong.

If someone on the Detroit wouldn't start to grow a brain capable of sapient thought soon, the falling temperatures of the desert planet would reach sub-zero. Shepard wasn't sure the ceramic plates of his suit or the polymer mesh underneath had been breached during combat, but it wouldn't matter anyway. He'd freeze to death no matter what.

Then again, he probably wouldn't feel a thing. He didn't feel much of anything, come to think about it. Never a good sign, that.

Johann tried to prop up on his elbows, slipped, and failed before he could even muster the effort.

 _'Don't fret, razorboy. You'll swing this like everything else. No trouble,'_ Melling had said to him during the flight down to the surface, a false smile of encouragement on her scarred face.

Sure.

As it stood, it seemed even Shepard wouldn't make it out of here alive. The idea took root, a disturbing notion travelling through the circuitry of his brain, irking him more than anything else.

He wouldn't be able to see his sister again. After all they suffered. After all they vowed to each other during silent nights. After all they promised each other during silent nights. _After all these silent nights._ Johann wouldn't—couldn't let this happen. He refused to accept this as his fate.

Some part of his combat-drilled mind whispered otherwise, he clamped down on it, stubbed it out like a cigarette butt.

Shepard grappled with the physical exhaustion and the pain flooding his body. Finally managed to get up.

He looked at his limbs.

Screamed.

The acidic smoke still wafting up from the stumps burned his lungs into submission.

 **.**

 **.**

The RK-5 Hammer appeared in his hand, pointed into the oily shadows of the rented coffin, the thin aiming laser wavering.

Shepard sighed, mildly unimpressed. Let the Lisunov Arms pistol slump into the adaptive folds of the temperfoam bed taking up the entire floor of the motel coffin. It submerged a few millimetres, dragged down by its own weight.

Johann drew a cool hand over his face, scratched his growing stubble.

And looked at his limbs.

A framework of advanced polymers and lightweight metals, bunches of electro-stimulated plastic cables, called myomers, which mimicked the actions of muscle tissue, all powered by tiny motors and cased in sleek black carbon fibre outfitted with shock-absorbing liquid polymer buffers.

The motors whirred and hummed nearly inaudible with each flex of artificial muscle.

Had the ceiling of the coffin not hung so low at one and a half metres, there'd have been no way to quench his urge to throw aside his dampened sheets like a cheap wharf-side whore and punch a hole in the wall of the cramped room.

Foregoing the senseless act, Johann instead crawled over to the minibar, peered inside at the meagre remains of its already plundered contents. Grabbed a tiny bottle, some cheap knock-off of Illryn Fields blended. Downed its contents with a swing.

His chest still throbbed with afterimages of the female assassin's ambush kick. The bruising of his reinforced ribs did so even more. But the two pink dermal stripes along his ribcage sent mouthfuls of endorphin rushing through his system to counter just that with proficient ease.

Having had his fill of the stowing heat filling up the coffin, Shepard threw on some clothes from his crumpled collection stored in one corner, a synthetic leather jacket over his shoulders, pistol holstered underneath, and left. Throwing the squat door shut, he locked it with a swipe of his magnetic key-card. An outdated system, to put it kindly. Not that he actually cared if anybody broke into his place and decided to rid him of his dirtied clothes. Good riddance.

The rest of his minibar he'd be upset about, though.

 **.**

 **.**

The streets bustled with night-time commerce.

Like winding rivers, throngs of people got carried away in the surging crowd. Many of them neon-haired, wearing transparent plastic skirts or jackets over actual clothes. At times with no actual clothes underneath, just a few stripes of plastic to placate modesty. Latest Illyrian fashion, or so he'd been told by one very drunk asari, by the name of Irma, the other night. Then she'd merrily rambled on about the downsides of swapping out the last-gen transistors taking up the fifth layer of the current Europa Geonomics biotic-chip for more powerful ones.

She'd made for a good drinking buddy. Never asked any real questions and liked to talk over Shepard's introspective silence about topics which seemed to interest her a great deal. When she'd asked to touch his hair, Johann had reconsidered for a moment, then shrugged and let her go ahead. Her girlish giggle had been worth it.

Shepard shook one filtered Yeheyuan out of his pack, pressed it against the ignition patch, and let himself be taken. Swallowed up by the seething mass of human and non-human scurrying like viral cells through a bloodstream under the brightly lit neon-spectacle that was Pansei, uptown Illyria.

Where the scum and rot lived like rats, mostly of their own choice. Fashion and lifestyle. Two things that Johann was thankful for that they went over his head like high-velocity rounds.

Hustlers walked the corners and side-alleys, handing out packs of wrapped plastic or nylon carryalls to loyal customers. Pimps covered in half-expensive jewellery and fake business suits hung back in the few shadows and watched the flesh under their care earn their keep with sweet promises and perfume reeking of debauchery and sweat. In hissing gushes steam plumed from small sidewalk stalls selling speared kirin, a local fish, probably caught by one of the whaler crews in the wasted-riddled waters of Adriatic Bay.

The innate drift of amassed sapiens searching with quick strides for cheap thrills lapped him up against shores of steel and brick. Content with the half-finished bottle of sake he'd acquired from a sushi stall, Johann didn't fight it.

Framed in parallel bars of blacklight at each side, a bleached krogan skull hooked above the entrance, the aptly named _Lizard's Skull_ wrapped its greasy fingers around him, the bottle of sake already empty and discarded. Oddly enough, the place was kind of a hotspot for script-kiddies and self-proclaimed second-class cyberspace cowboys. Fancy name for data-thieves, if you boiled the flesh of meaning away, down to the bones. The booths were seedy and covered in near darkness, facilitating a false air of privacy in concert with the beating music.

As usual, Tar tended the bar. His massive industrial-grade prosthesis looking comical as the old krogan mopped up the scarred patina of the dark wooden tabletop. With a gold and silver toothed leer of a smile, the compulsive gossip greeted Shepard. He produced a decently sized bottle of actual Illryn Fields blended and filled up a tumbler.

'Hoy! Hotshot. Don't start a shootout at my place, huh.' The grating bark of his voice was his regular conversational tone.

Johann eased himself onto one of the high stools crowding the bar. 'What makes you say that, Tar?'

'The action extravaganza at a tenement not three blocks from here, for starters.' The old krogan leaned forward, peered at him sideways with one watery eye, grinning.

Shepard took a sip, trying to wash away the bad taste in his mouth. 'Heard nothing about that.'

'Har. Har. And I fucked Ishmil Talin.'

'Didn't know you were one for racist stereotypes, Tar. Only because she's an asari celeb doesn't mean she rips off her silk clothes like a stripper.'

'Sure does.' He waved it away. 'Besides the point. I know it was you who got all the heat down on Pansei last night. I know your type, hotshot.'

'The few times I've been here.' Shepard let it trail away, tried to remember, came up empty, took another sip instead.

Tar's hulking frame shook with laughter in answer. 'Good one. Few times. Every _fucking_ one in here knows you're Wedge by now.'

'So?'

'So . . . nothing. Keeps people from starting a fight.' Tar stopped cleaning the tabletop. 'Like it that way. You looking for a job, per any chance, hotshot?'

'Doubt you'll pay better than Isaac Carrera.'

The krogan nodded in return. 'But isn't the beauty of my company worth more than all the money that steel-eyed bastard could throw at you?'

Johann snorted a genuine laugh at that. 'You don't even know the man.'

Tar's large reptile eyes twinkled with mirth. Then the krogan barkeeper stepped away and broke up a brewing disagreement with obvious violent potential with a brash application of his industrial prosthesis and carried the troublemakers outside, throwing them onto the carefully tended-to lawn of garbage-filled black nylon.

Another Yeheyuan had appeared in between Shepard's lips, already lit as well.

The vibration of his omni-tool prophesised bad news, insensitive of his currently imbalanced mood.

He answered the call.

 **.**

 **.**


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Mass Effect, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 3 and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware._

 _Author's note:_

 _This'll probably be the last chapter I post before Christmas. So, to all of you out there celebrating, I wish you all Merry Christmas!_

 **.**

 **.**

 **ONEIROMANCER**

 **Chapter III**

 **.**

 **.**

About half an hour and a ridiculously expensive skycab flight into the corporate heart of Illyria later, Johann stood in front of a pissed-off Lenka Fedokura, actively resisting the urge to fish out his cigarette pack.

'You take the scenic route or what?'

'Sure did. Stopped at one of those eezo-powered asari hover-restaurants for a gala menu. I'll take you sometime, Len.'

'I fucking hate you, Shepard. If you weren't Wedge's posterboy killer then I'd have put a slug through your skull the moment I met you, believe me.' Shepard just smiled and nodded, which seemed to irritate her even more.

'Really, Len? Renown. That's stopping you? I'm disappointed, I must admit.'

The Slavic woman huffed out her agitation and said, 'Don't call me that.' She turned around, reconsidered, made a slashing gesture. 'Don't call me anything, in fact. Just come with me.'

'Sure.'

The skin stretching over her wide cheekbones scrunched up in a frown, the Wedge lieutenant measured him, then walked down the brightly-lit lobby of the Wedge-owned setup. Shepard followed her down hexagon-tiled hallways, deeper into the heart of the PMC facility.

At a non-descriptive reinforced steel door, Sjöström and Innokentievich stood guard, golden-visored full-face helmet-rigs and all, high-powered Steiner-Bisley flechette rifles at the ready.

The small chamber inside was dark, the walls covered in metal. No window, just a small lightbulb hanging on coloured cables from the ceiling. It stank of urine and shit.

On the aluminium chair, bolted to the floor, hung the nude form of the female assassin, dermal patches dotting the length of her left arm. Probably sedatives and hypnotics that altered higher cognitive functions like 3-quinuclidinyl benzilate, midazolam, and sodium thiopental or a cocktail of scopolamine, along with morphine and chloroform to emulate the age-old _remedy_ _which loosens the tongue_ as the Russians called it.

All which kept the woman from slumping forward were the shackles attached to the chair behind her back. Her hair splayed down over her face in shags. Blackened and fresh yellow bruises covered her pale skin. Rivulets of blood ran down her chin, throat and dried somewhere on either her flat chest or belly. Tiny silver knobs latched on to her mechanical legs like bloodsucking eels. Inhibitors, sending pulses of electromagnetic fields into her limbs.

Johann kneeled before the unconscious assassin, grabbed her jaw, turning her head from side to side, inspecting. Eyes swollen shut, lips bloated and split.

Without looking over his shoulder, he said, 'You trying to win a Nobel Peace prize, Fedokura? Nevermind that. What's she been saying?'

Ignoring his comment, Fedokura sighed at his back. 'The same as twenty hours ago. That she knows nothing and was paid big-time to kill Hosea.'

Thaddeus Hosea. Racial mix of European and Japanese heritage, current head of Heyuan Geonomics' subsidiary on Elysium. Their current contractor.

'I'm guessing corporate feud come back to bite him in the ass,' said Fedokura. 'But she's got to know more. Must've been in contact with her employer, even if it was via a middleman. We've got to deliver something to Hosea.'

'And what do you want me to do about it?'

Fedokura began tapping her foot. 'You're on point. Doesn't seem that way since you never show up. Thought it was high-time you worked for your pay-check.'

On the right, the back of her jaw bulged out, radiating heat to the touch of his artificial fingertips.

'What's up with that?'

'Hmm? Oh. False tooth showed up on the scan. Contained a mycotoxin capsule. But the derm you put on her kept her under long enough for us to remove it.'

The woman's broken lips fluttered weakly in a indecipherable murmur. Shepard made a non-committal noise in his throat. Let go of the female assassin's head, which returned to its unconscious slump. 'Don't you think that's strange?'

'Strange how?'

Johann resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 'If you'd have enough cash to pay her wage what? Twofold? Threefold? Then there's enough money involved to install wetware in a quick surgery. Just in case she's captured.'

Fedokura furrowed her eyebrows, looked at the prisoner. 'So what?' she asked, unsure.

Shepard shrugged. 'No need to install anything if she doesn't know anything. You tried to trace her payment?'

The Wedge lieutenant nodded. 'No-go. Bounced off too many shell companies and fronts to trace.'

'Dead-end, then, Len. Best kill her. Or don't, I don't really care. Your call.'

The anger visibly returned as she nailed him with her gaze. She spat in not-at-all-faked contempt, 'I'm not _you_ , Shepard. She's a prisoner and she'll stay a prisoner.'

'Fine by me. Just don't call me for something like this again, Fedokura. I'm the emergency backup in case you fuck up.' Johann paused, made an effort at comradery. 'Have Hosea check his labs. _All_ of them. Maybe something's missing. Just maybe the attempt on his life was merely a diversion. I know that won't sit well with that egocentric bastard, but that's not our problem.'

Fedokura gritted her teeth through the advice, mulling over the sudden extension of a vague and doubtful truce. She nodded, tersely. 'Right. Now get out of my sight.'

'Pleasure.' Shepard smiled.

 **.**

 **.**

Stepping outside a few minutes later, Lenka raked a hand through her short hair.

'David. Radio it in. Get someone to pick her up for debrief. Then have her thrown in a cell. Maybe HQ will find some use for her.'

The Russian pilot nodded. 'Aye, aye, ma'am.' He marched off with brisk steps bouncing in echoes down the walls of the hallway.

Lenka sighed, unsatisfied that nothing resting on her was swiped away by the simple gesture. The dead, artificial eyes as they appraised the situation with nothing but sterile calculation and Johann Shepard's flat expression fresh in her mind.

'Everything alright, ma'am?' Sjös ventured behind her, still guarding the door.

'It's nothing.'

He waited a moment in silence, his sniper's stare piercing her back. 'Shepard?'

'Yeah . . . Shepard.' She shook her head. 'That man's a disgrace for the Wedge.'

Sjöström, ever the diplomat, carefully said, 'He has one of the highest track records.'

Lenka turned around, tiredly looking at her squad sniper. 'If you look at the numbers. Sure. But statistics are one thing.'

'Torfan,' he said, his tone matter of fact.

'Torfan.'

Sjöström bit his lip, a frown on his pale face. Then said, 'You know what happened there, lieutenant?'

'No more than anyone else. Reports are all classified. But you know the stories: biggest fuck-up in SA history. Wedge didn't do much better. Scant few made it out alive of that hellhole, the rest got butchered. And our esteemed Commander is one of an even smaller number who walked away in the end. Most just up and left or blew out their brains.'

She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. 'Who knows what really happened there. Can't have been good though.'

'I heard he executed POWs.'

'That's what they're saying. But, as far as I know, he hasn't been reprimanded. Just a slap on the wrist and they sent him off again to do God-knows-what.'

'Makes you wonder why.'

'I've got no fucking clue, Sjös. But I'll be glad when we're finally redeployed.'

They needed to get back to Hosea. Someone had to look out for him, especially after a failed assassination attempt. And it sure as hell wouldn't be Johann Shepard.

 **.**

 **.**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: _Mass Effect, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 3 and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware._

Author's notes:

 _Here, have another chapter._

 _Hope you'll all enjoy it!_

 **.**

 **.**

 **ONEIROMANCER**

 **Chapter IV**

 **.**

 **.**

Elysium's dawn bristled in brushstrokes of grey, the sky a flecked canvas like a television screen tuned to a dead channel.

Trying to conjure up vague images of last night, reanimating catatonic memories veiled behind an alcohol-induced smokescreen, Johann quietly sipped on his double espresso. A filtered Yeheyuan quietly burned away between his elongated, artificial fingers.

The small café overlooked the gradually awakening portside below. Dreary figures, shuffled like zombies, out of alleys and wharf-side establishment. The buzz of Illyrian night-time swept away by grey waves of fog, its arrival punctual as always with the slow climb of the sun.

Industrial cranes whirred and groaned, loading crates and containers of various size and colour onto the docked freighters and whalers. Calls echoed back and forth through the cool morning air, breaking the perfunctory illusion of peace with the harsh reality of commerce. The motions of the towering cranes and the curses of sailors breathing life into the harbour below was humbled by the corporate skycar traffic highlighting the glass domes and spires of downtown Illyria into stark contrast across Adriatic Bay. Dwarfing all, staring up at the cloud blemished sky at an angle, were the massive planetary guns, the number of which had doubled after the utter debacle of the Skyllian Blitz and the SA's staggering failure to protect one of its core colonies. Only the corporate heart of Illyria could compare to the massive steel armaments in size.

Drawing on his cigarette, Shepard followed the gaze of the enormous mass accelerators. Gulls wheeled their circles above, proclaiming their presence with shrill squawking, diving down nose first to catch their early morning meal. Johann took a moment to appreciate the scientific mystery that these birds were. No matter which colony humanity had established over the years: where there were vast bodies of water, there also were gulls. Or, at least, something very close to them.

Shepard rubbed at the derm, hid underneath the rim of his shirt. Trying to will it to let the soothing effects kick in sooner. The headache he nursed pounded against his temples and sent sharp pain behind his artificial eyes.

With the sudden need to let his tired body crumple onto the adaptive temperfoam of his motel coffin, Johann left a credit chit on the table and got up. As he shuffled his way back through the deserted streets of Pansei the derm finally hit, unfolded in his bloodstream with a cold sensation that sent a shudder down his spine.

He shielded his eyes against every sharp glare of unwelcome light, thankful that even the humming neon signs and brightly lit shop windows had been washed away by another familiar Elysium dawning in grey.

Halfway to his coffin battlefield awareness reared, screaming at him. The tiny dispenser augmentations inside his body kicked into overdrive and served him a neurachem cocktail for breakfast. Skin pricking, heartbeat picking up, pupils automatically dilating, everything sharpened until it adopted a crystalline glint around the edges.

Senses reeling he cast around, absorbing the few early risers walking the streets. Knives struck his back, their blades drawing fissures of discomfort over his skin. Shepard went into a jog, wheeled around a corner and inside an arcade. The blaring noise of a full-volume 8-bit soundtrack and the stutter of fluorescent light in the dark room overloaded his sensory system. Sent him tumbling, nearly sprawling to the floor. Though no-one was in sight to witness his clumsiness; something to be thankful for, at least.

Johann took the stairway two steps at a time. Behind the counter, fiddling around with a few token chits used to play, a young man wearing headphones gaped at him with heavily pierced lips, then shouted after his retreating back. Shepard ignored him.

Took in the scene upstairs, a walkway, balconied on one side looking down into a courtyard filled with waste, and with locked doors on the other. He kicked one door down, his augmented legs making short work of the hinges holding it in place. Nobody was inside. Good. Shepard took off, approached another door at random and brought up his omni-tool. Fired up a military-grade infowar program and breached the helplessly outmatched security software in seconds.

Careful to avoid any noise he slipped inside. The shutters were closed, preventing any light from flooding the room. His artificial eyes adjusted to the gloom with a click, fed him a clear image. Two naked forms splayed on the bed, tangled in sheets.

Hasty footsteps outside. Walking over the door he kicked in, combat-smooth.

The high-pitched scream shook him out of his reverie, cursing. Barely, he managed to avert the neurachem-guided reflex aiming his gun at the female turian sitting up in bed. Shepard dashed for the shuttered window, fired two smart munition rounds with his Hammer. The crunching impacts were the only sound emitted by the silenced pistol. He jumped, made himself small, and, in a shower of glass and dented aluminium shutters, went out the window and into the street below.

 **.**

 **.**

Winded, Johann finally made it to the capsule hotel after taking several detours in order to shake any possible shadows he had. He'd nearly emptied the skull of a homeless dosser when the man had the misfortune of happening upon Johann in a dark alley, with his paranoia at its highest.

Still steadying his breathing back to an acceptable baseline, Shepard swiped the magnetic card over the pad locking the coffin he'd rented and proceeded to crawl inside and vanish into the soothing gloom. The padded walls wrapped around him like jaws of a bulky creature and swallowed him whole. Curling shawls of blackness filled the room, the silent hum of the minibar refrigerator the only sound.

With a lightning-fast mental command, Johann slapped the virtual combat overlay of his ocular implant into instant boot-up. He scrambled forward, stance bowed. The virtual combat overlay outlined a humanoid figure in golden lines. Fed him information through the infolink, instantly feeding his brain readings about biological inputs like heartbeat, pheromones in the air, eye-movement as well as information about armaments and possible augmentations.

The male human, in his mid-forties, sat cross-legged on the temperfoam floor and didn't move. Even when Shepard tackled him and pinned the man's throat under his arm. Lisunov Arms pistol pointed at one eye for good measure.

'What the fuck do you want?'

His tail stared up at him, blinked once. 'To talk,' he said, eerily calm and with a thick British accent.

Johann applied more pressure with his elbow. 'What about?' The man gave no notice of discomfort.

'Something which is of interest to you, Mr. Shepard.'

'Don't evade the question or I'll blow your brains out.'

A nod. 'Allow me to sit up? You can still point your pistol at me if it makes you more comfortable.'

Shepard snarled. Entangled himself from the stranger and put a few paces between them, his smart munitions pistol not once straying from its target.

'There. Now talk.'

'Thank you.' He didn't massage his throat, didn't even touch it. 'I'm afraid I have some bad news for you, Mr. Shepard.' He paused. What for, Johann didn't know, probably to incur a measure of drama into their conversation. It was getting on his nerves, making him itch to pull the trigger and see his brains spattered across Shepard's coffin in a portrait of death. The notion made him smile.

'Spit it out,' Shepard growled.

'It is in regards to your sister. You're about to receive a call from her husband. She has been kidnapped.'

Something clamped shut inside him, turned his features flat. The fuck was this? Face-to-face hostage negotiation? The Wedge paid Johann well, but not that well. More likely they'd abducted his sister because of her research. Whatever that entailed at the moment, it went far over Johann's head anyway. But then again, why contact him?

'What do you want?' said Shepard, entirely faking the unemotional response.

His omni-tool vibrated. Incoming call from his brother-in-law.

Johann picked up. The man on the other end was a red-eyed wreck.

 **.**

 **.**


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Mass Effect, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 3 and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware._

 _Author's notes:_

 _Meet the sister._

 _Enjoy!_

 **.**

 **.**

 **ONEIROMANCER**

 **Chapter V**

 **.**

 **.**

'In other news: riots continue on the outer colonies, though without a unified front, the colonists on planets like Eden Prime, Fehl, and Traltor ask for a higher military presence by the SA in case of pirate and slaver attacks.'

'In response to this, Systems Alliance spokesman Andrew Liscomb stated: "that each and every SA citizen intending to leave the inner colonies has been informed of the dangers posed beyond the borders the Alliance can effectively cover with the Citadel-regulated naval forces at hand." As such it is currently not planned by the Alliance to expand their naval presence in the outer colonies.'

Commercial break crashed onto the wall-encompassing screen of her office with a blaring jingle. Eezo-powered toothbrushes proclaiming the whitest of teeth after using them; Sani Shelani's newest hit album rocking the charts; remember your origins, remember your race, like bad breath left in the wake of Terra Firma's pro-humanist slogan.

'Welcome back to Alliance News Network. Today, the Citadel Council issued a degree, declaring a Council-space wide ban on all commercial biotechnology manufactured and shipped into Citadel space by the Systems Alliance.'

Of course, that didn't prohibit the United States, the European Union, the Soviet Union, the Chinese Federacy, the Japanese Prefectures, or the Australian State from importing any of their advanced tech into Citadel space, seeing as none of them were legally associate members of the umbrella held by the galactic Council. Only the Systems Alliance was.

Then again, the probability of any of the remaining Earth factions willingly giving up their own tech to each other and, much less, aliens was pretty much zero. Earth-born people liked their conflicts far too much for them to end them peacefully.

In the end, that would lead to the natural infestation of Citadel black markets with human-engineered augmentations and biotechnology. Secretly, every Council race would take a piece of that particular pie for themselves, take it apart, study and fret over the implications and the inner workings, butting heads over differences of opinion, and then reverse-engineer mankind's technological products and sell a toned-down, probably cheaper version on their own markets legally.

All to slow down the relentless forward march of humanity and its incursion into the stability-through-stagnancy policy the Council appeared too like so much.

A veiling sugar coated layer on top of everything to sell to the public as candy. The glittering and sweet version of the galaxy the public is allowed to see, for their own good. A bitter mixture of half-truths and outright lies.

With a scowl, Megan turned the smart-screen off. Slumped back into the leather folds of her office chair in the following silence.

But with what's coming, with the discovery she made, the code finally deciphered and cracked to lay bare all the hidden meaning underneath, Megan would change the galaxy. She'd change everything. Science, religion, technology, biology, chemistry, philosophy, all of it.

And even the Citadel Council could not hope to stop the future.

.

.

The klaxons blared in alarm when she made her final round through the labs, checking up one last time with everyone and their progress before the board meeting, come the next day.

Circling red light washed over the confused people, slowly trotting to the emergency exits. The artificial voice of the in-house virtual security construct droned over the speakers.

'This is not a drill. Everyone please stay calm and evacuate the facilities in an orderly fashion.'

Just like it always said during routine exercises.

Then the doors exploded inwards. Old Adamsky—having worked for Eldfell-Ashland for more than thirty years—and their newest intern, Amber, were swatted aside and turned to pulp by the dented steel doors as they accelerated into the lab.

Small canisters rolled into the room. Smoke and stuttering flashes filled Megan's vision. Her ears rang with a high-tinged pitch. The explosion had thrown her off her feet and against a nearby workstation. Vision lurching and spinning, Megan touched the back of her head. Her hand came free slick with blood.

Black-clad figures entered the laboratory full of panicking scientist personnel; the gasmasks covering their faces lent them an otherworldly demeanour, one of menace. Megan heard their filtered breathing. A constructed perception of her terrified mind, because in reality her ears still rang.

Someone grabbed her under the armpit, hauling her to her feet. The deep thuds of exchanged gunfire travelled through as vibrations the ground, registered in her back. Clutched by the neck, to keep her low, they led her away, covering her retreat. There were five of them. Belltower security personnel, contracted by Eldfell-Ashland Industries.

Their tough reputation seemed earned. Three of them keep the more numerous black-clad assailants at bay. But, in the end, there were only three of them. First their kinetic shields splintered and collapsed. Then one of the Belltower mercenaries took a slug through his reflective golden visor, grey matter and tissue spraying out in a single geyser. The two shepherding Megan out of the charred and bloodied ruin of a lab pushed her through an automatically opening side entrance upon recognising their ID-tags. The gushing heat, immediately trailed by the shockwave of a fragmentation grenade discharge threw her protectors through the door after her. One cracked painfully against Megan's waist, buried her underneath his full combat-rig weight, cutting off her breath.

Cold terror spurting through her, Megan pushed and clawed at the inert Belltower soldier on top of her, trying to get him off.

She gasped for blissful relief when the pressure on her chest eased, choked on the smoke-filled air instead. Someone helped her up again, steadied her. Megan wanted to speak, ask, and scream. All at the same time. _What's happening_! She only managed a weak groan, as if a garrotte had been tied around her throat.

Megan looked down at the inert form of the Belltower who'd nearly suffocated her. Stumbled back in shock, held upright by the iron-grip of the last remaining officer who now led her away from the blown-up corpse of his comrade. Megan registered the heaviness of her clothes, looked down, saw they were covered in blood and bits of meat.

Without breaking stride, the Belltower officer dragged her like a nylon bag of garbage, even when she started to puke out her guts.

He pushed her down to a crouch. Turned to look at her. Depolarized his golden visor. Slight tilt to his slitted eyes, he was younger than she expected him to be. Voice clear even through the integrated audio transmitters of his helmet, he spoke, 'You alright, ma'am?'

Megan wasn't sure. She didn't think so, but nodded in affirmation anyway. She wiped away bits of bile from her mouth.

He smiled reassuringly, pressed her shoulders. 'Name's Takeshi. I'm going to get you out of here, ma'am.'

Megan wanted to ask about her colleagues back in the lab. Where were they? Had any of them made it out? Some obscure part of her mind told her _no_. She decided to ignore it. Found nodding the only thing to do which wouldn't send her in a spinning descent.

'We have to move.'

Takeshi polarized his visor again, and led her through familiar hallways and corridors. Blackened bullet-holes riddled and marred the once pristine walls. Friends and colleagues sat slumped, hands cradled in their laps in a lost fashion. Much like the walls they were ripped open, exposing everything under the skin.

With a raised hand, Takeshi stopped her from rounding a corner. He peeked over the edge. Meanwhile, Megan found a kind of dulled peace by concentrating on the shapes and forms and sounds the raging electric fire in an office nearby produced. How it slowly melted plastic and metal and the crumpled form of a cleaner.

A fragile peace broken by an amplified inhuman scream which made her bleed from ears, nostrils, and eyes. Megan collapsed to her knees, covering her ears in a futile attempt. What followed was a much more human shriek of terror and then the sudden tearing of flesh and hanging silence.

With the flat of his hand Takeshi pushed her back against the wall, then held his index finger to where his lips would be behind the V-shaped faceplate.

Once more, Megan resorted to a shaky nod.

Takeshi tilted his helmeted head, no doubt listening in to his intercom. With a gesture he opened up his omni-tool and consulted a map of their immediate surroundings. Leading her back a few turns, the Belltower officer pointed at a ventilation shaft whilst he scanned the hallway with his assault rifle for threats.

Over his shoulder, he said, 'We'll go through there. It'll lead us to a maintenance shaft that'll get us to the roof.'

'The roof?' Megan croaked. They'd be completely exposed up there.

'VTOL's coming to pick you up, ma'am. Emergency protocol in case of a level five security breach.'

Right. She forgot. How did she forget? What happened here?

With quick jabs, Takeshi pried the lamellated panel off. Megan scurried in on her stomach and crawled through the dusty ventilation shaft, soon surrounded by pitch black. Her heart thrummed in her chest. She'd never liked enclosed spaces. The temporary blindness didn't help either.

 _Just crawl, Megan. Just craw-_

She yelped when her hands found no purchase, pummelled forward and down out of the shaft onto the corrugated surface of a maintenance catwalk. The landing was hard. Something in her shoulder cracked. More than a whimper wasn't left in her winded lungs anymore.

Takeshi thudded on the walkway beside her. The two in-built lights of his headgear, positioned under the chin, flicked on, stung her eyes, blinding her for a few moments until she adjusted to the unexpected illumination.

'Sorry, ma'am. Should've warned you,' he said.

'My arm . . . '

Takeshi turned her over, grabbed her uselessly flapping left arm. Probed for motions which didn't cause her pain to flare up. There weren't any.

'It's dislocated. Bone's bruised too.' He peered at her, remote behind his visor. 'I'll have to reset it.'

'Great. Go on ahe-'

Megan screamed. _Fucking_ bastard. Didn't give her any time to think about it. Her shoulder radiated and pulsed, back where it belonged. Panting, she leaned against the railing of the walkway. Probably better he didn't warn her.

He gestured. Shape of a ladder in the gloom. 'It's not far. We've to go up, then were nearly there. Whenever you're ready, ma'am.'

Megan took a few minutes, panting, then fought her way to her feet. The pain lacing through her arm throbbed stronger at the exertion. But she managed, biting her teeth through the ordeal.

'Lead the way,' she hissed.

They made it in good time, even with Megan lagging behind due to her injury. Takeshi kicked the aluminium panel out of its hinges, sending it clattering over the floor. High-powered assault rifle brandished, he exited the ventilation shaft, sweeping left and right.

On his haunches, he offered her a hand out of the dusty interior. Megan came out coughing, glad to be free as relatively fresh air filled her deprived lungs. Megan looked over to Takeshi-

Pointed over his shoulder, and screamed—

 _An inhuman shriek split the air._

—turned and ran as fast as her legs would let her.

It'd just hung there in the air. Like a spider waiting. Patches of blue skin peeking out, the rest hidden under a skin-tight latex-like grey suit. Soot-covered grills instead of a mouth. A sturdy full-face helmet-rig hiding nose, eyes and head behind dull alloy. Eight long mechanical tentacles spouted from the horrifying apparition's head. All the four natural limbs of the female's body ended in stumps.

Gunfire erupted behind Megan. She ran for her life. The fast whirr and snap of high-speed mechanical limbs, then human flesh being sheared apart. Blood splashing up the walls and tiled flooring.

The inhuman shriek again, exulting in the kill. Laughter webbed into the outcry in a layer of madness.

'W _a_ aah _aa_ Aah _aHhar_ aaa _h_ A _aHa_ hhAa _hRa_.'

It cut mortal terror into Megan's spine. Sent her skidding around a corner, stumbling to a halt.

Staring at the snubbed barrels of four assault rifles. Belltower mercenaries, in their distinct grey and gold uniforms, hiding behind a barrier. Fingers twitchy, but still under a pretence of control it seemed. Megan didn't end up shot to bits after all she endured. Something, at least.

The Belltower soldiers shouted at her. The quick gaze over her shoulder made her heart spike in fear. Megan ran, nearly fell. Hanging upside-down, claws at the end of each tentacle digging into the white-tiled walls, the thing wriggled its way towards her at astounding speed, wailing all the while.

A cylindrical canister sailed over her head, clinked onto the floor. Went off, the concussion shook Megan off her feet, covering the corridor behind her in raining dust and stuttering electric sparks.

Out of the settling debris, mechanical tentacles sped forward, snapping and jabbing at the men behind the barrier. Dissolving them into a heap of boys crying for their mothers, then the razor-edge ends cut them into a mist of blood and clotted organic tissue painted all over the corridor.

Megan crawled forward, tears washing her vision into a haze. On her belly, she made her way through the remains and faeces of dead and dying soldiers-for-hire. The smell of blood, urine, and shit assaulted her nose more than anything else.

Streams of gunfire zipped above her. The thing behind her shrieked its laugh and laughed its shriek, decorating the walls with human meat.

Then Megan was outside. High up, wind buffeted her slight from, even when prone. She actually managed to crawl out of the human muck, which stuck to her now. The whine of high-powered plasma engines broke through the unrelenting gunfire behind her.

Strong hands grabbed her and carried her the last few steps to the waiting VTOL. Behind her men died screaming. The aircraft took off with a roar. The thing burst out through the double doors onto the light-flooded tarmac, swatted at the VTOL with its mechanical limbs, but managed to no more than graze the hull.

Megan blinked. Found herself lying down. The rush of air outside. Plasma contrails behind them. A face peering down from above her, a worried expression scrunching up the androgynously beautiful features.

His lips moved in accordance to soothing words, whilst caressing her cheek with his thumb.

Megan blinked.

Darkness took her.

For good this time.

 **.**

 **.**

 _Tell me what you think, guys and girls! Your silence is making me bite my nails in uncertainty._

 _Thanks for reading!_


End file.
